poetry, my teacher said

as his hand flew across the chalkboard

spelling out the word he had just said

poetry, he repeated, and then

rather pointedly,

he drew a white line under the word in chalk

poetry.

what is it, class?

I’m too shy to speak up

In class but I’ll take a stab at what it is

Poetry is an art form,

an expression of identity and love,

grief or loss or play

It is meaning and no meaning and not meaning

all at the same time

it is

words twisting and turning sentences

split up and broken off

it is feeling and being alive and also

simply existing

it is lowercase and capitalized

it is wisdom and nonsense all together

it is the quick crackle you hear by the fire

the smell of the mist of rain or

the overwhelming dread you feel in your heart when you know you love somebody too much if that was ever such a thing

it’s saying the same word

over and over and over again

poetry. poetry. poetry.

until you say it so many times it almost loses all meaning at all

it is trying to make sense of a difficult world but also the understanding that the world does not make sense

and that that’s okay

maybe that’s how things are meant to be

that’s what poetry means to me